


Crushin' It

by amberwing



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, Gym Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, inappropriate use of gym equipment, seriously kids don't fuck underneath a barbell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberwing/pseuds/amberwing
Summary: Neither of them are morning people. Sora is stubborn about it—he’ll slap the snooze button on his alarm clock for an hour straight given half a chance—while Riku, masochist that he is, forces himself out of bed five minutes before his is due to ring. When Sora finally gives up and crawls out from under the covers, Riku’s long gone—literally or figuratively, on a run or an errand or working out in their little gym in the gummiship garage.
Relationships: Riku/Sora (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 129





	Crushin' It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fireborn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireborn/gifts).



> A very late birthday gift for Fireborn. <3 AND a happy birthday to Sora Kingdomhearts. It's been 18 years, kiddo; you deserve it.

Neither of them are morning people. Sora is stubborn about it—he’ll slap the snooze button on his alarm clock for an hour straight given half a chance—while Riku, masochist that he is, forces himself out of bed five minutes before his is due to ring. When Sora finally gives up and crawls out from under the covers, Riku’s long gone—literally or figuratively, on a run or an errand or working out in their little gym in the gummiship garage. 

Today, it’s the latter. Sora can hear the telltale clank of weights through the door in the kitchen as he pours his coffee. Riku, perfect man, always makes enough for both of them and leaves the pot on warm. Sora adds a generous tablespoon of sugar and stirs lazily, chin propped on an elbow atop the counter. _Clank, clank, clank_ from the garage. Is it leg day? Sora’s a big fan of leg day and how great Riku’s ass looks while he does squats, straining against the seat of his sweatpants. 

Or, it could be arm day, which is _fantastic_. Riku’s arms are even nicer than his legs, if Sora’s to be the judge. There’s nothing quite as nice as running a hand up his lithe, corded forearms up to the tempting swell of his biceps—especially when they’re all pronounced from a workout. Or—

Sora stands up straight a little too quickly, hot coffee sloshing over his fingers, making him hiss and wave his hand. He sticks the offending fingers in his mouth to cool them. _Or_ , he thinks, sucking sugary black coffee from his knuckles, it could be chest day. Sora’s _favourite_ day. 

He hadn’t planned on getting distracted like this—in fact, today is supposed to be dedicated to packing for an upcoming expedition with Ven. But, he hadn’t… _not_ planned on it, either, so he can’t rightly tell himself it’s wrong to wander over and crack the door open for a peek. 

The gym is—well. They’re flattering themselves to call it a _gym_ , really, when it consists of a squat rack and bar, a bench, and a bunch of plates shuffled into the corner of the already-crowded garage. The Highwind and its maintenance equipment take up most of the space; Sora considers it a win that he hadn’t had to uninstall any gummiblocks when they’d been assembling the squat rack. 

From the door, Sora can only see the movement of the bar to show that Riku is working out—a tool cabinet covers most of the view from this angle—but that alone is enough to tell him that yes, _YES_ , it’s chest day. A tendril of heat coils in his gut that has nothing to do with his sudden, compulsive gulp of coffee. 

_Sorry, Ven. Packing will have to wait. I’ve got some tits to worship._

He slips past the cabinet to lean against the nose of the Highwind, coffee cup warming his hands as he takes in the glorious sight of Riku doing bench presses. From this angle, Sora can follow the line of his body all the way up, and he has to bite his lip a little not to make an embarrassing sound. Not that Riku would mind, really—Sora just doesn’t want to startle him into dropping the weights and crushing himself or something equally bad. His arms are on full display, biceps flexing with each down-up press of the barbell, and Sora really just wants to bite into them like a ripe peach. 

Once Riku’s finished his set, placing the barbell carefully back into its cradles with a grunt, Sora pads his way closer and sits at the end of the bench, right between Riku’s spread legs. He’s wearing sweatpants and a tank-top, and the tank is already damp with sweat. _God_. 

“Morning,” he chirps. Riku grabs one of Sora’s knees to lever himself up with a groan and then lets momentum take him to press his sweaty forehead into Sora’s shoulder. 

“Hi,” he says into Sora’s skin, and Sora can’t stop the full-body shudder that runs through him. Riku undoubtedly notices, but apparently he’s going to play it coy today. _Fuck yes._ “You’re up early.”

“I heard the call,” Sora says loftily and presses his face into Riku's sweat-damp hair, breathing in the intoxicating smell of him: musk and old cologne and shampoo. 

Riku pulls back to look at him, squinting. “The call of _what_?”

Without breaking eye contact, Sora places his hand gently atop one generous pec and squeezes. Riku’s head bows to look at the offending hand, and Sora meets his arched eyebrow with a grin. He squeezes again, and Riku snakes a hand to pinch Sora's stomach in retaliation. Sora sucks his belly in with a yelp, nearly knocking his coffee off the bench.

Riku steadies him, cupping his throat gently with a warm, calloused hand. The soft press of his lips against the corner of Sora's mouth sends a jitter down his spine, and Sora leans into it immediately, coffee forgotten, Riku’s mouth warm and inviting; he tastes like his own coffee anyway, sweet and dark, when Sora slips his tongue past the seam of his lips.

“The call, huh,” Riku murmurs when they pause, breath warm against Sora's cheeks. “Can't get more specific?”

Sora nips him, not ungently but with _intent_. “Sure. Just was thinking about these.” And he places both hands against Riku's chest now, to a bemused smirk. “And how great they look when you're lifting.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Riku quips, but he doesn't try to move Sora's hands; his fingers clench into the loose curls at Sora's nape, tighten just enough to sting—just how Sora likes it best. He bites his lip and watches Riku’s pupils dart down to his mouth and up again. 

Something delighted and burning dances in Sora’s stomach: Riku’s _interested_.

“It’s the only opinion worth knowing,” Sora tells him loftily and gently pushes Riku until he’s lying back on the bench again. Sora takes another sip of coffee, surveying him with a clinical eye: the sweat-damp halo of his hair, the bob of his throat as he swallows. The way his legs straddle around the bench, drawing Sora’s gaze inexorably up to the sweatpants-shrouded shape of his dick as he shifts slightly. 

When he glances back to his face, Riku is smiling at him, one eyebrow arched in that sardonic way he’s so amazing at, because he _knows_ how good he looks, and he _knows_ how much Sora loves it—and he wants to share. Wants to watch Sora get flustered and bothered by how—how—

He still doesn’t really have a word for what Riku _is_ , because there’s too many and surely there’s gotta be one out there, somewhere, that can gather all of those clashing syllables together; he just hasn’t found it yet. (If anyone knew about this quest, they’d probably question why Sora hasn’t even checked a dictionary, and Sora would ignore them. Because that’s stupid. Why would he waste his time with _dictionaries_?) 

Sora sways to the side to place his coffee on a nearby cabinet before scooting himself back on the bench, weight on the heels of his hands. “Whatcha waiting for? Don’t let me stop you.”

Riku snorts, but then he grabs the bar and, with the barest whisper of effort, starts his set. Sora watches for a minute, dreamy-eyed and captivated by the flex of his chest and arms—even his abs, held taut with each smooth, upward movement of weight—before he places a hand on Riku’s thigh. Just lightly! He doesn’t want to startle Riku and cause an accident, even if Riku doesn’t seem to be lifting super heavy today for whatever reason. (Sora long ago gave up on trying to understand the arcane workings of Riku’s workout schedule.) 

Even his _thighs_ are working as he bench-presses, held slightly flexed, firm beneath the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Sora rubs his hand upwards, slow, careful, while Riku remains steadfast, breaths even, reps controlled—until Sora pauses at the crease of his thigh and groin and just. You know. Sits there. Rubs his fingers against the loose elastic of Riku’s waistband while his thumb draws up and down, following the slope of Riku’s body down… down, _almost_ close enough to feel the shape of him—

Riku’s breath catches as he brushes his dick. The plates jingles slightly against the bar. Sora looks up and finds Riku frozen, the barbell held overhead while his eyes bore into Sora’s, the dim light of the garage turning them to hungry black holes. 

Sora smiles at him, brightly. “Something wrong?” 

Riku doesn’t answer him. His eyes dart away again, staring hard at the ceiling. Another rep. Sora trails his thumb along the curve of his dick, fingers following to cup him through his sweatpants, and there’s no mistaking the shudder that runs through him, the way he twitches against Sora’s hand. 

Sora leans forward, bracing himself on his other thigh, to ruck Riku’s tanktop up with his nose and kiss the soft skin below his navel; Riku’s sharp inhale through his nose, and the way the bar shakes as he pushes it upward again prompts him to squeeze briefly, gently; heat slithers down his spine at how Riku stiffens in his grip, swelling against his fingertips. 

No sound. Sora’s not disappointed, because he knows Riku’s got a will of steel and a competitive streak longer than either of them are tall; it just tells him that today’s a teasing day, a “let’s take Riku apart piece by piece until all that’s left is the heart of him, the hot living core ready for Sora to lap up like a cat with cream” and that! That is _fantastic_.

He takes a minute just to feel Riku, coax him into a tenuous half-hardness that _still_ manages to fill Sora’s palm substantially, the fabric of his sweatpants shifting slightly against his dick. His hips twitch upward, then Riku gives a strangled sound, half-grunt half-moan, as Sora licks his way down a hipbone. 

“Sora,” hitches out of him. He’s holding the bar overhead, unmoving, the plates jingling slightly.

“That’s my name,” Sora agrees against the hard, flexed lines of his abdomen, breathing in sweat and skin. “Problem?”

Riku’s breath escapes through his teeth in a strained hiss. Sora watches him through his bangs, chin drifting down to rest a cheek against the firm curve of his dick. “Too heavy for you?” he asks, sympathetic. “Want me to spot for your next set?” 

The flash of Riku’s eyes, like heat lightning, sends a shiver down Sora’s spine. “I’m good,” he says after a moment. His voice doesn’t waver a bit; Sora is delighted _and_ impressed. “You’re better at cheerleading than spotting anyway.” 

Sora snorts. “Cheerleading?” he scoffs, scooting up on the bench until he can push this dumb tanktop up farther. Riku’s dick is a firm, delicious pressure against Sora’s stomach. “I’m _coaching_.” 

He pauses as Riku finally moves again, tracing the lines of his ribcage while the bar dips down and up again. Then he’s free to get the offending fabric out of the way, cup his palms over the swell of his pecs. Sweat drips down the valley between them, and Sora can feel his nipples pebble against his palms.

“Sora,” Riku says, very softly, and Sora looks up at him. Riku’s beautiful like this, sweat-damp and breathing hard, his hair curling with damp. He’s smiling at him, and Sora’s heart skips a beat at the sight.

“Riku?” he asks, suddenly breathless. “Everything okay?”

With a grunt, Riku racks the weight, and Sora’s suddenly being pulled the rest of the way up, and soft, warm lips are capturing his own, calloused hands tangling in his hair. Sora has time to squeak in surprise before he’s got better things to think about, like how hot and wet Riku’s mouth is, how nice the pressure of his arms wrapped around Sora’s back is, how he can roll his hips and rub them together in decadent little sparks of pleasure.

“Just perfect,” Riku murmurs against Sora’s lips, and Sora can only hum in reply, drawing his legs up to straddle Riku’s hips properly. Riku groans a little as he settles solidly atop his dick. “What’d I do to deserve you?”

“ _Everything,_ ” Sora tells him, burying his fingers in Riku’s hair and tugging a little; Riku rolls his head back slightly, just like Sora wanted, so he can brush breathless kisses down his jaw and throat. “Now tell me what you want.” 

Riku’s laughter rumbles through them both, and Sora can’t help but bite his earlobe, turn that excellent sound into an even more excellent moan. “W-what do _you_ want?” 

He’s hard, and Riku’s even harder; Sora, suddenly, wants to see it, wants to know how crazy he’s driven him. Wants to taste him. Wants to feel all the coiled, magnificent strength of Riku’s body bend to him. “Stay up here,” he orders breathlessly into his ear, and Riku groans agreement. His arms loosen enough that Sora can squirm upright and scoot down again. The drag of Riku against his crotch is divine, and Riku’s little gasp even better. 

By the time he gets to where he wants, half-laid atop the bench, hands braced on Riku’s thighs and his chin braced against Riku’s groin, Sora pretty much has it made. Not that he didn’t before, but now? Now there’s a sizable tent in Riku’s sweatpants, and he can rub his cheek against it tauntingly and watch Riku’s bare chest tremble for it.

Sora doesn’t really want to wait, but he also doesn’t want to make this too easy. He can feel Riku’s eyes boring into him as he pulls back enough to rub the bridge of his nose against him until he finds Riku’s tip, roll his cheek aside to mouth at him through the cotton. Riku makes a choked sound, and his hands settle against Sora’s scalp, nails digging in. Sora drags his mouth down the length of him, tongue dampening the fabric, until he finds Riku’s inner thigh and digs his teeth in a bit, just enough to feel it indent beneath the sweatpants. God, he needs to get these off, _soon_. 

“Sora—” 

Riku’s thighs twitch, trying to clench against him, but get caught by the hard edge of the bench. The tug of his fingers in Sora’s hair is the perfect little hit of pain, a tremor down his spine; he really shouldn’t torture both of them like this, should he? He considers pros and cons:

Pro: Riku _loves_ edging him all the time, so this would be just desserts.

Con: Sora will have to wait to get his dick in his mouth.

He considers this briefly, pressing breathy kisses back up Riku’s length until he can drag his tongue against the damp spot forming at his head. Riku’s thighs tremble, and Sora places a hand on each, pressing them back down against the bench. Soon, he tells them silently. Soon, he will be the metaphorical watermelon being crushed. The noise Riku makes, and the slide of his hands down from Sora’s scalp until his thumbs are a firm pressure against Sora’s temples, decides him. He meets Riku’s eyes and lifts his head enough to hook his fingers in Riku’s waistband and pull downnnnnn ohhhhh FUCK he’s not wearing underwear, what a day to be alive and have Riku’s whole cock right there in front of him, beautifully hard and leaking a bit already. 

He’ll never get over how mind-blowingly gorgeous Riku is. Sora hasn’t found an inch of his body that he wouldn’t be happy to stare at, touch, and/or kiss (preferably all three) for basically forever. He tells Riku as much very frequently, and Riku always blushes this adorable shade of pink that reminds Sora of peonies. He’s told Riku that, too, and that usually gets him a noogie and a kiss, which is exactly what he wanted anyway. 

“You’re being,” Riku gasps, back arching in some futile attempt to reconnect Sora’s mouth to his dick, “remarkably patient today.”

“Haven’t finished my coffee,” Sora replies, sitting up and resettling himself a bit, grinding briefly against the bench before he can stop himself. _God_. Riku’s eyes are dark and hungry when Sora glances back up at him. He bites his lip at Sora’s searching look, and Sora’s struck again by how unfair it is that he can’t be kissing Riku and sucking him off simultaneously. 

“That wasn’t stopping you _before_.”

Sora scoffs and pinches Riku’s side, earning a yelp. “Stop mouthing off at your coach. I’ll make you do laps.” 

Before Riku can get out some kind of smartass reply, Sora wraps his hand around the base of his cock and leans down, swallowing him. Both of them groan; Sora hears and _feels_ Riku’s, through his fingers, against his tongue, and Riku’s fingers spasm against his temples. Sora glances up as he purses his lips around him, and a shudder runs through him at the sight: Riku, head thrown back against the bench, lips half-parted, sweat gleaming on the firm swell of his chest. 

God, he could look at Riku all day. 

Sora closes his eyes and focuses on relaxing his jaw, rubbing his tongue against the hot girth of him, sucking his cheeks in as he takes a deep breath through his nose. Riku’s big—but Sora’s been told he has a big mouth, too, so it works out wonderfully for both of them. He braces his hands against the sharp jut of Riku’s hips, thumbs digging into the softer skin of his groin, and works him down, inch by inch. The musky bitterness fades against the back of his tongue, replaced mostly by salt as he reaches the base, nose pressed into wiry hair and soft skin. Riku’s shaking under him, and Sora takes a moment to adjust, taking as deep a breath as he can manage, before swallowing around the thick swell of Riku’s head.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck—_ ” comes from above him, hoarse and breathless, and Sora can’t help but moan in response, pressing deeper, swallowing again before drawing back to suck gently at his tip. Riku whines so prettily that Sora twitches in his boxers, and Riku’s hips thrust upward minutely. Sora wants that, suddenly, stays steady and loosens his hold on Riku’s hipbones so he can fuck slowly into his mouth with soft, breathy gasps. God, Sora _wants_. He wants to swallow around Riku when he comes; he wants Riku’s tongue in his mouth while he rides him; he wants to just wrap his fingers around them both and swallow down every sound, every breath, come on Riku’s stomach so he can sit back and see him covered in it—

He groans around Riku’s next thrust, rubbing himself shamelessly against the bench, arousal churning hot and desperate in his stomach. Yeah. That one. _Definitely_ that one. With one last, parting swallow, he pulls off and wipes some spit from his chin with the back of his hand. Riku’s hips tremble in a half-aborted thrust, chasing Sora’s lips. His chest is heaving, but so is Sora’s; they’re both gasping open-mouthed as they look at one another. 

“You okay?” Riku asks, and he sounds like he’s run a marathon, his voice a delightfully rough comb against Sora’s scalp. He shivers without meaning to. Riku props himself up on one elbow so he can cup Sora’s chin with his hand, and Sora’s suddenly breathless just from looking at him, just from _having this_. How long have they been together? Should he still feel like a lovestruck teenager every time Riku smiles like this, small and sweet?

“Sora?” 

Sora leans into the calloused warmth of Riku’s palm, turns to press a kiss against the muscle of his thumb. “I’m fine—just...” he murmurs into Riku’s hand, kisses it again and feels Riku tremble. “Just love you, s’all.” Riku’s already-pink cheeks go even redder, and he sits up fully. Sora lets him tip his chin upwards, meets his lips with a hum of approval.

“Love you too,” Riku murmurs into his mouth. His hands dip to Sora’s hips, thumbs pressing into his stomach and fingers stretching across the dip of his back to pull him closer while Sora licks Riku’s lips until they part. 

With an ease that makes Sora’s toes curl, Riku pulls him into his lap again, his cock a firm, delicious pressure against Sora’s. Riku’s mouth is so hot, tastes like coffee and a hint of toothpaste, and Sora can’t help but drape himself against him, looping his arms around Riku’s back. Lets himself enjoy the squeeze of their cocks against each other, the powerful, liquid movement of Riku’s back muscles under his hands.

When they pull apart to breathe, Riku trails to his ear, tracing the cartilage with his tongue so delicately it sends a wrack of shivers down Sora’s spine. The shivers don’t stop when he asks, low and hot and rough, “Can I touch you?” 

Sora groans into his neck and rolls his hips into him firmly. “ _Please_ . Wanna—” and he loses his train of thought, suddenly, because one of Riku’s hands snakes its way between them to squeeze him through his boxers; his hands are _so big_ that Sora just gets lost in them, the pressure all-encompassing and _fuCK_ . “ _God_ ,” he chokes, hanging his head over Riku’s shoulder and jerking into the touch. “Riku—”

Riku’s laughter is distant thunder through Sora’s ribcage. “What’d you want?” he purrs, nipping at Sora’s earlobe when Sora doesn’t reply fast enough. “Tell me.” 

Sora’s _trying_ , really, except long, clever fingers are tugging the waist of his boxers down, and then there’s hot, calloused skin against him. A soft gasp escapes him, and he can’t stop himself from thrusting gently into Riku’s firm grip. “Want you to jerk us together,” he breathes. “Can you?” 

“ _Can_ I?” Riku says, amused and—to Sora’s gratification—a little shaky. “Well…” And his grip loosens, only for the velvet weight of Riku’s cock to squeeze against his, pressed together so tightly that Sora can feel how _wet_ Riku still is: slick with sweat and spit and hot precome. “How’s that, coach?” 

Sora can’t hold back the laughter and squeezes his face harder into Riku’s shoulder to try and stifle it. Riku’s hand slides up, a thumb stroking at Sora’s head, smearing wetness against him, and the giggles pitch into a sharp whine. “Y-yeah, that’s good,” he gasps. “Now lie down.” 

Riku pauses, a silent question, and Sora pulls back enough to look at him. He’s shiny with sweat and his hair is a mess. Sora brushes stray bangs out of his eyes before he can stop himself, and curls his fingers into the damp strands at Riku’s temple. “I wanna see,” he elaborates, and pulls at the captured hair lightly. Riku’s eyelids flutter, and he leans in for another kiss, just a peck, before he lies back on the bench again, hand on Sora’s hip sliding to his thigh instead. 

As much as Sora wants Riku pressed up against him at all times, it’s worth letting him go to just _look_ at him like this, see his hand encircled around their dicks, see the whole stretch of him: the gleam of his sweat-soaked skin, the hard peaks of his nipples, the faded pearlescence of so many scars. Sora settles his hands at his waist and bites his lip, closes his eyes so he doesn’t meet Riku’s gaze and lose it right there. “Okay,” he breathes shakily, and Riku has the audacity to laugh—but that’s part of why Sora loves him, isn’t it? What a jackass. _His_ jackass. 

Then Riku’s hand is moving, grip tight and hot and at just the right pace: fast enough to shoo all the thoughts out of Sora’s head except how _good_ it feels, but not so much that he’s gonna come right there. Soon, but after a Riku-approved period of orgasm-chasing that he’s gotten down to an art over the years. Even in this position—admittedly not the most comfortable in the world—Sora can just surrender to the feeling of Riku’s palm, Riku’s cock, grinding them together and trusting that Riku has them. Riku always does.

Sora leans more of his weight forward to get the leverage he needs to start rolling his hips properly, hands sliding up to brace against Riku’s chest. The slick slide of them together is so hot, so perfect; it doesn’t take long for them to synchronize their thrusts together in a way that tightens his stomach and makes him pant helplessly, pleasure peaking in thunderclaps each time Riku answers with a choked whisper of his name. Riku’s fingers squeeze their heads together suddenly, and that’s it, that’s _it_ ; all Sora can do is gasp, high and strained, and sensation overwhelms him, every nerve ending an overloaded lightbulb that _explodes_ in high pops and cracks of glass shattering and he’s just bare, hot filaments, glowing and exposed—

Until he isn’t, and he slumps forward against Riku’s chest. Riku’s heart is racing counterpoint to his own, and while Sora can’t hear anything over the high-pitched buzzing in his ears, he can _feel_ Riku’s harsh breathing, Riku’s fingers as he peels himself free of Sora to keep stroking himself, hard and fast and desperate. Sora forces himself to sit up again, and oh, it was _such_ a good idea to do it this way: Riku’s abs are splattered with his come, and it sends a wrack of shivers through him. 

“Love seeing you like this,” he says breathlessly, squeezing Riku’s pecs firmly before finding Riku’s nipples and pinching them hard between thumb and forefingers. “All covered in me—”

Riku’s jaw tightens, brows furrowing, and he comes with a high whine through his teeth, body arching beneath Sora like a wire stretched taut that snaps just as suddenly; he breathes out in a gust that ruffles Sora’s hair and gradually relaxes against the bench, slowly stroking the last few jolts of orgasm in small drips and shudders. When his hands limply seek out Sora’s neck, Sora lets Riku drag him down again, laid against one another sticky and sweaty and exhausted.

Sora drifts, listening to the sound of Riku’s heartbeat slowing against his cheek. His coffee’s probably gotten cold. Not that it matters; he’s ready to just go back to bed now. 

“How’m I supposed to finish my workout now,” Riku mutters at last, his voice a comforting rumble through Sora’s ribs.

Sora presses his nose into Riku’s neck to kiss his jawline. “That _was_ the workout.”

Riku groans and sits them both up effortlessly. He looks like he decided to go for a stroll in a hurricane: completely disheveled. Sora beams at him. “You’re not nearly heavy enough for that to count,” Riku tells him, but kisses him back, soft and sweet. “But I guess I can call it cardio.” 

“I’m the best coach around.” Riku snorts and pointedly ruffles Sora’s hair with his sticky hand. “Wow, gross. You owe me a fresh coffee.” 

“And you owe _me_ a clean shirt,” Riku replies. “And some tissues.” 

With a big, put-upon sigh, Sora pulls his boxers back up (oh, ew, sticky) and awkwardly slides off Riku’s lap. “Anything else, your highness?”

Riku’s eyes glitter in that specific way that means he’s restraining himself from laughing at him, and Sora’s heart aches with happiness. “A shower,” he says archly, mouth twitching. “But the first two’ll do for now.” 

Sora can’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss Riku one more time, and feels him smile against his lips. 


End file.
